


Slipped

by heckate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Chronal Disassociation, F/F, Slipstream Incident (Overwatch)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckate/pseuds/heckate
Summary: When a botched test flight sends 19-year-old Lena Oxton to god-knows-where, Dr. Angela Ziegler and Overwatch scientist Winston will do anything to bring her back. Unfortunately, a few months outside the fabric of time and space isn't kind to the psyche, and as the perhaps irreversible effects of the accident on Lena's body and mind are revealed, Mercy and Winston realize that bringing her back was the easy part.
Relationships: Emily/Lena "Tracer" Oxton, Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

She wondered if everybody could just shut the bloody hell up.

Alarms screeched in her ears; panicked voices begged her, rather hypocritically, to stay calm; the plane itself seemed to be whining, the whirring of technology apparently protesting her attempt to bend space-time. It was an understandable reaction, she figured.

And, of course, her raw throat told her that she was probably screaming, too.

And then, suddenly, as though she were floating in the sea, the sounds in her ears dampened and she felt weightless. She considered closing her eyes and allowing the too-strong waves to take her.

But as quickly as she’d left, she came back to herself. She glanced around, confused, the ruckus returning tenfold so that she thought her ears might bleed. The various alarms and voices seemed to her like a tune stuck in her head. She wondered how long this had been going on for—days? No, that couldn’t be right.

“Tracer! Oxton, report,” someone screamed at her. She winced at the sound, as though the radio static physically shocked her and the harsh treble of the comm link reverberated against her nerve endings.

“Here, Commander,” came Tracer’s panicked but still optimistic voice, “Think somethin’s wrong, luvs.” Did she say that already?

“We know. We have tried disabling the teleporter remotely, but we aren’t getting results. We’ve got the scientists on it,” said Commander Morrison, though Lena found she could not remember his name. “Turn around immediately; land as soon as it is safe.”

As she worked the controls and spun the plane around, trying to ignore the increasingly irritating and now fully excruciating alarms that were pounding through her brain, Tracer’s heart filled with failure—and then panic once again as the plane lurched and she felt her forehead smash against the control panel. Again, something—that force, those waves—hit her and she blacked out for a moment—or maybe it was longer, or not at all. A loud ringing in her ears now pierced the cacophony of beeps and screams

She groaned in pain as the head wound she could not remember getting slowly bled.

“Tracer, do you copy?” the voice came again.

“I think something’s wrong, luvs,” Tracer repeated, although she had no recollection of saying it the first time. She groaned again and tasted blood as it dripped from her nose.

“What was that?” another voice interrupted, “Ms. Oxton, are you hurt?”

“Ziegler, you can’t just-” Morrison started.

Then a third voice, this one booming and kind: “Lena, get back here  _ now _ . I can’t lose you.”

“Oxton,” Morrison said as he regained control of his command center, “He’s right. Forget landing—scientists say get outta there. Eject and deploy your parachute, we’re sending a team out to recover you.”

Lena took a deep breath and slammed the eject button—although there was no slam. Her hand passed right through the controls. She looked at her arms in panic as her fingers seemed to grow translucent. She felt dizzy.

“Jack—wait, no—Sir. Commander, I mean. I can’t- agh-” she clutched her helmet in pain, “Can’t touch it, sir,”

When no response came and the plane jerked again, her lightheadedness grew with her panic.

“Sir? Anyone? Slipstream to… to…” Who had she been talking to?

Still no response. She tried to hold her ears as the ringing grew louder, but her helmet blocked her.

She looked down at her legs and found them seeming to fade as well. She frantically attempted steering the plane from its descent, but her fingers passed through the controls like water. She watched helplessly as the plane hurdled downward, losing altitude quickly but not quickly enough to end her pain.

Her optimism finally wavered, “Someone tell Emily I love her…” Wait, who?

She was hit by another wave of the unknown, and, as it pulled her out into a brilliant blue sea of time and space, she finally relented.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Winston, Overwatch’s most esteemed theoretical physicist and its only lunar representative, had been rather excited for the “theoretical” in his job description to become “practical,” but now he wished he had not worked on the Slipstream project at all. Of course, had the project been entirely under _his_ supervision, none of this would have happened, he was sure, but Overwatch’s scientific community was large and full of conflicting opinions. And even larger were its strategic combat and weapons departments, which rushed the Slipstream’s completion and scheduled the test flight for earlier than Winston would have liked.

He worked tirelessly to find the girl who piloted the Slipstream. Tracer, as she became known in the RAF, and as the world surely would have known her one day when she became the greatest pilot it had ever seen. Or Lena, as Winston knew her. 

As he explained to her the technology she would be testing, Ms. Oxton seemed less than attentive. But her bright smile won Winston over, and they became fast friends in the months Lena spent on the Overwatch base in Gibraltar, training and undergoing medical tests and background checks and interviews and training and training and training. It seemed unnecessary, Winston thought. He had seen her records—joined the Royal Air Force at 17, completed training and at 19 was deployed to Italy to help quell a small uprising of some bots from an Omnium in Sicily. After five months based in Naples, she returned to the UK with seventeen confirmed kills. Of course Overwatch had heard about this hotshot pilot and wanted her to test their fighter. Surely it seemed to her like an opportunity. It was a death sentence.

He grunted in frustration, his efforts leading him to more dead ends.

“Dr. Winston?”

The gorilla jumped a little in his seat, for he rarely had visitors, “Commander Reyes. What can I do for you?”

“I didn’t want to be the one to deliver this news,” Commander Gabriel Reyes started, “You know how there has been Talon activity in France,” 

“Erm, I suppose…—”

“Well, you see, Blackwatch is requesting further funding to take them down. You understand—before it becomes something bigger than we can handle.”

“Alright. Commander, I really don’t see—”

“Funding that Overwatch doesn’t have. You heard how one of our investors at Volskaya pulled out?”

“I suppose. I’m not watching the news much these days—”

“Doctor, we are re-allocating resources from the Slipstream project. Unless you make progress in the next two weeks, you will be cut off.” He paused, “I’m sorry, Winston.”

“And Jack is okay with this? This girl is MIA and it is _our_ fault!”

“Jack doesn’t like it,” Reyes said, “but an organization like ours has to make sacrifices every day. For the greater good.”

“ _The greater good_ . It’s all because of you and _Lacroix_ that this even happened in the first place! Blackwatch demanded we push the deadline up, so that you all could use the technology as soon as possible to fight your petty terrorists. If my team hadn’t been rushed, Miss Oxton would still be here.”

“Dr. Winston, the girl was in the military. She was an active soldier before we hired her. She knew there was a risk of death. I am sure she accepted that before she went down. It’s time for you to accept it too."

“There is no evidence that she is dead.”

Reyes sighed, “Two weeks, Dr. Winston.”

As the commander shut the door behind him, Winston roared and slammed his fists on his desk.

“I don’t understand,” Winston muttered later before a large monitor in his lab, “I’ve scanned the entire flight path and its surroundings inch by inch for any sign of spatial anomalies. Heck, I’ve scanned for this stuff all over the planet—I’ve used every one of Overwatch’s satellites. If _she_ is not here, then _something_ must be! Whatever happened to her—she can’t be _gone_ ! Wherever she is, she would have to have left behind some sort of… residue. _Energy_ . And yet there’s _nothing_ ! I’ve scanned for teleportation markers; spatial inconsistencies; _dark matter_! Nothing. It doesn’t make sense!”

“Winston,” said Mercy quietly from the doorway, “Are you talking to yourself?”

“Huh?” Winston cleared his throat, “No! Of course not. I’m talking to Athena.”

“You should get some sleep. It’s nearly two o'clock in the morning.”

“I can’t. Did Reyes tell you? They will shut down the program in two weeks if we don’t make any progress. 12 days now.”

“I wish I could help, Dr. Winston. Metaphysics aren’t exactly my expertise.”

“I don’t need your help, Angela. I _know_ I can do it. I just need more _time_!”

There was a silence as Winston seethed and clenched his fists. But then his fingers relaxed and his eyes widened.

“Dr. Winston?” Mercy asked cautiously.

“Oh my god,” Winston said.

“Winston - _what_?”

“ _Time_ _!_ ” Winston began typing frantically, “Athena—let me see the schematics for the Slipstream’s Teleportation Engine.”

“Winston, tell me what’s going on,” Mercy said, growing agitated.

“The Slipstream, as you know, was meant to teleport,” Winston explained as he wrote out equations on a chalkboard, “Now, to travel through space, you see, one must also travel through time. Like how it takes time to walk from one side of a room to another.” He stepped back from his equations and examined them, before erasing bits and starting over, “Now, to bend space, allowing the plane and the pilot to teleport, we also had to bend _time_ . I don’t know why I didn’t think of it—I was so concerned with _where_ Lena had gone, I didn’t think to wonder _when_!”

“So… Winston, what does this mean?” Mercy asked.

“I have been searching for various types of _spatial_ disturbances, and never once came across any remnants of the Slipstream _or_ Ms. Oxton. I didn’t think to search for _chronal_ disruptions! If I modify the scanning technology I’ve been using to detect disruptions in space to instead detect disruptions in time, maybe I can find something.”

“How long do you think it will take?” Mercy asked, herself excited.

“Two days to modify the scanners. Another to conduct the search.”

“And then what…?”

A pause again.

Winston cleared his throat, “Let’s find her first.”

So Winston modified the scanners. And with caffeine provided by the good doctor herself (she was rather unhappy to give it up, and certainly suggested that the gorilla get some rest, though she hadn’t herself), he did not sleep and thus his work only took a day and a half. He spent a third and fourth day hypothesizing, and then the fifth and sixth building a chamber that he hoped would be able to contain the energy of someone otherwise absent from this timeline.

And then it was time to conduct the search.

“You see,” Winston explained to Mercy, scientists bustling about the lab the morning of that day, “I had originally searched the flight-test sight with a drone equipped with sensors to detect tears in the fabric of space. Now, I’ve modified the sensors—well, replaced them completely, I suppose—to detect chronal—time-related, that is—anomalies instead. Using the same sorts of calculations that we used to create the Slipstream jet itself.” Winston took a deep breath, “So I’ve sent the drone back to the test sight. If we don’t find it—the plane, I mean—and Lena there, then we may have to conduct a planet-wide search using satellites. That may take longer…”

“What can I do to help you, Dr. Winston?” Angela asked with a hand on his back.

“If we find her—well, I’ve already created a system that should be able to lock onto her, well, her presence, regardless of whether or not she is in our timeline, and anchor her weakly to our plane. You see, there’s a sort of… an energy signature, if you will, that—”

“Winston?” said Mercy.

“Yes, Angela?”

“Your team knows this, yes? Tell me the details later. For now, every second that we spend not looking for her may mean she is in pain. Just tell me what _I_ can do.”

“Yes well, you are here because... Well, if we find her… if she is… well, I don’t know if she is injured, we don’t know where she’s been. If the plane crashed outside of our timeline. What any of this has done to her. Someone with your… medical expertise will be essential.” He paused and looked at a screen, “The drone has just arrived at the site. See how the screen is all blue? That means the drone is not sensing any chronal anomalies.”

He flew the drone past the runway and over the water. Mercy prepared for hours of slow searching, but it only took a few minutes before they found something, just below the spot the jet had gone down.

“There!” Winston said as the drone approached an orange blob, vaguely plane-shaped, resting under the water, “It works! That must be the Slipstream. It is bursting with chronal energy, must be existing somewhere between timestreams. Perhaps if we can recover it…-”

“Winston.”

“Ah, yes. Right. Lena may still be inside the jet. Remember what I said about the signatures? Well, if I have the scanner ignore the signatures of the Slipstream and its components…”

He pressed some buttons, and the shape of the Slipstream disappeared, leaving just blue.

“Nothing’s there,” said Angela.

“Perhaps she exited the jet. Or she ejected. She must be somewhere…” He hit those buttons again, and the shape of the Slipstream returned.

“Keep looking.” Mercy said.

So he did. He drove the drone across the water, occasionally diving underneath but deeming it unnecessary as the drone could pick up chronal signatures at the bottom of the ocean.

For hours they searched, and they were beginning to lose hope. It grew late, and many of Winston’s scientists went home.

“Okay—we may have to try using the satellites. They will be less accurate, but if she teleported—”

“Winston! What’s that?” Angela pointed to the edge of the screen, where the tiniest bit of orange just poked into the field of view.

Winston moved the drone closer and, sure enough, what they saw was this: a ball of orange, curled on the beach as waves crashed around it against the shore.

Their hearts raced.

“It could be a… a piece of equipment from the plane.” Winston said. He turned off the scanner and the form disappeared from their view. He turned it back on and there it remained.

“There’s only one way to find out, right?” Mercy said, “Now what?”

“Now…” Winston typed furiously, “I can lock onto the signature, and pull it in here. Whatever it is.” He pointed absently to the hastily constructed chamber behind him. Then he looked Mercy in the eyes, “Listen. If it _is_ her… well, she’s been trapped between timelines for 6 months. Maybe longer for her. We don’t know… Well, prepare for the worst.”

Dr. Winston walked over to the chamber and pulled a lever. The orange figure disappeared from the screen—but nothing else seemed to change.

Winston held up a tablet to the chamber, and through its screen one could now see the orange form on the hard floor.

“She’s here,” Mercy breathed.

“Okay, Dr. Ziegler,” Winston said, “Be ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. Winston pulled another lever, and with a flash of light that had the pair squinting, the machine whirred to life. When the light subsided, they saw her: curled limply on the hard floor of the chamber was the body of one Lena Oxton, still in her flight suit, and faded as if a ghost, though visible to the naked eye.

“Is she…?” Winston started, “Angela, wait—!”

But Mercy was inside the chamber the moment she sensed an injury, leaving the door ajar behind her.

“Miss Oxton,” Angela said, “Lena, please wake up.” She tried to touch the girl, but her hand passed through her, as though she were made of water.

Unable to check her pulse, Mercy opted to watch her chest for its rise and fall. When she didn’t see it, everything seemed to freeze.

But then, like a miracle, Lena took a deep breath and she stirred. She groaned softly, flexing her limbs and twitching her fingers.

“Hey, don’t move. Take it slow, alright?”

Lena didn’t respond. She winced at the sound of Mercy’s voice and sat up carefully, hugging her knees and backing up against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Hey, Lena,” Angela said quieter, “Can you hear me?”

Tracer shook her head desperately.

“Well now I know you can hear me,” Mercy said with a small smile, “since you just answered my question. How do you feel?”

Lena opened her eyes slowly. “Angie?” she muttered.

Angela furrowed her eyebrows, for while she was delighted to hear Lena speak, she was unsure why the pilot she’d only met a handful of times would refer to her by such a colloquial nickname.

“Uh—yes. Well, Dr. Ziegler,” Angela said, “You can call me Angela if you like. We met a few times before your flight.”

“My flight.” Lena repeated, “Dr. Ziegler…”

She did not continue, so Mercy asked: “Can you state your name, rank, and service number?”

Lena looked at her blankly, “Huh?”

“Standard protocol after a head injury. Or… whatever this is.”

“Tracer…” Lena said.

Angela smiled, “That’s a start. Name, rank, and service number. Can you remember?”

“Did I hit my head?”

“Come on, Lena.”

“Cadet Lena Oxton, Royal Air Force 01091337.”

“Ms. Oxton, you’re not a cadet. You’re a flight officer, and have been for some time.”

Tracer didn’t answer.

“Who is the Prime Minister of England, Lena?” Mercy asked.

After thinking for several moments, Lena shrugged, “Sorry, Doc.”

“Do you know what year it is?” Asked Mercy, taking diligent notes inside her mind.

“Are you a doctor?” Lena asked dazedly.

“Yes. You just called me Doc…”

Tracer blinked, “I did?”

“Lena, stay with me,” Mercy begged, “What year is it?”

Lena thought hard, and then: “It’s 2076, isn’t it? Wait, no—2067. No, is it still the 50s?”

“Do you know how old you are?” Mercy asked.

“I’m in my thirties, aren’t I?” Tracer started, rather frantic, “Twenty-six, I mean. No, am I younger? I’m not a child. My forties?” She shook her head in frustration.

“Hey, Lena—look at me,” said Angela, “I just need you to stay with me for a few more minutes, then you can rest. What can you remember from the accident?”

“The accident?” Lena asked.

Mercy sighed, “Alright—just forget about that for now. Are you in any pain?”

Lena paused, “Yes. I mean, I think so.”

“Can you tell me where?” Mercy asked,

Tracer’s eyes darted around the room, half-focused, “Where’s Emily?”

“Who’s Emily, Lena?”

“Who?”

“Alright Miss Oxton—listen to me very closely. The year is 2069. You are 19 years old. You were testing the Slipstream teleporting jet for Overwatch. The plane malfunctioned and you have been missing for six months. But you are safe now. We still need to work out what type of condition you are in. For now, can you try to rest for me?”

“Can’t,” Tracer muttered.

“Why not, Lena?”

“Are you a doctor?” Lena asked slowly.

Mercy cocked her head to the side, concerned but even moreso curious, “Yes, Lena. And I cannot help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“What happened to me?”

Mercy sighed, “You were testing an aircraft and there was an accident. Can you remember me telling you that a moment ago?”

“No, that’s not what happened…” Lena said, “Did you catch Doomfist?”

Mercy cocked her head. “Sorry Lena, what?”

“Sorry. I’m…” Lena stuttered, “Are you a doctor?”

“Lena-”

But Tracer cut her off, “I do know you, don’t I?”

“We met before your flight,” explained Mercy, slowly and carefully, “For your physicals.”

“No,” said Lena, shaking her head in frustration, “From… from the field.”

“Miss Oxton, I’m not a field agent. I’m a physician with Overwatch.”

“Overwatch,” Lena repeated, eyes wide with recognition, “I got a letter from them. They want me to test an aircraft…”

Mercy took a deep, deep breath. She took a moment to observe the girl, who she noted was no longer wearing her flight helmet—it must have been knocked off. Her flight suit was scorched and tattered. Her nose seemed broken, and blood had dried beneath it. Angela was unhappy to see more blood leaking from a wound somewhere underneath her hair.

“How did I get here?” Lena asked slowly.

“Dr. Winston saved you,” Angela said, “Do you remember Dr. Winston?”

“Of course I do!” exclaimed Lena, “Can I see ‘im? I could do with a gorilla hug!”

Angela smiled warmly, and hearing this Winston approached the chamber.

Seeing him through the glass, however, Lena’s eyebrows furrowed and she eyed him with confusion, “Is that a gorilla?”

“That’s Winston, Lena,” Mercy said, trying to hide her exasperation.

Lena stared between the two of them for a moment, “Who?”

Winston frowned and shied away back to his equipment. Mercy gazed hard into Lena’s eyes, finding them glazed and unfocused, filled with confusion and fear, but also trust. Trust and familiarity that Mercy usually only saw from patients whom she’d saved from death multiple times over many years.

And perhaps she hadn’t saved Lena before. But she certainly would now.

“Don’t worry, Lena,” she said softly, “We will help you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Lena was only experiencing half of the world.

Half of the  _ present _ , at least. For in fact, while sounds were muffled and low and colors were desaturated and dull, and although she could not taste or feel or smell and edges were fuzzy and blurred despite her having never needed glasses, it seemed to her that memory and reality were indistinguishable.

She closed her eyes and listened to her heartbeat, which seemed unsteady, out of sync. Like it was following a tune, a melody, rather than the steady tick of a clock, pounding with an imagined chorus and fluttering with a verse.

Opening her eyes again, she looked around the lab. Scientists—or were they doctors? They had white lab coats on, regardless—bustled about. She watched them absently, envious of their assuredness, lost in her own confusion.

She eyed a clock on the wall. It made her stomach turn, filled her with a sense of wrongness. She watched it carefully, followed the second hand with her eyes. Then she blinked.

-x-

“Dr. Winston, it’s like she’s got some sort of…” Angela searched for the word, “Well, some sort of dementia. But she’s like a ghost. I can’t get her in for medical tests, brain scans…”

“It could be temporary,” said Winston, “The confusion, I mean. Trauma, stress, or a physiological effect of—”

“—of what happened to her. You well know, Dr. Winston, neurology, psychotherapy—none of it is my expertise. I am not sure how much I can help her in this state.”

“Overwatch has afforded us more time, given this miracle. Perhaps I can convince Morrison to afford us some more doctors as well.” Winston grunted, “I will work on boosting the chamber’s power—certainly with enough, she might be able to maintain a semi-solid form, at least temporarily.”

“In the meantime,” said Angela, “I will continue to speak with her. See what is happening in her head. She’s so young, poor girl. I just wish—.” She signed, and glanced up at the monitor that showed the chamber in the other wing of the lab, “Where’s Lena?”

In fact, the girl was nowhere to be seen. The duo rushed into the room, Mercy bursting into the chamber looking for any trace of the pilot.

“Dr. Winston,” said Mercy, exasperated anguish permeating her voice, “We lost her. Oh my god, we lost her.”

-x-

Immediately did Winston begin working on a new way to find Lena, when his temporal anomaly drone came up unhelpful. And it was four days after she’d disappeared that Lena was suddenly back in the chamber, as though she’d never left.

“She’s back!” Winston declared into his comms at 3AM when he blinked to find the girl back in the lab. Mercy entered the room faster than Winston could even stand, and flew into the chamber without hesitation.

“Lena!” said Angela, “Lena, what happened?

Tracer turned away from the clock and looked curiously at Angela, “What happened when?”

“Lena, you disappeared. You’ve been missing for four days.”

She heard the words, of course, but Lena found them hard to believe. She felt panic rise in her chest, “Really?”

Mercy nodded, “Miss Oxton, how are you feeling? What do you remember?”

Lena glanced at her, dumbfounded, “Remember from when?”

“From when you disappeared.”

“Which time?”

Mercy help back a frustrated grunt,  “Lena, tell me the last thing you remember.”

Tracer thought for a moment, but didn’t answer.

“Look,” said Mercy, “Lena, I’m trying to help you. I know it’s hard. I know you’re confused.”

“I don’t feel like I was gone for four days,” Lena said slowly in a brief moment of lucidity, “I feel like I blinked.”


	5. Chapter 5

Mercy took careful notes on Lena’s condition, speaking with and observing her daily. She found out several things, each one puzzling her more than the last.

Lena’s ability to estimate the passage of time was mediocre at best, and nonexistent at worst. Indeed, Angela found that a short conversation might feel like hours to Lena, who quickly lost interest, and that ten minutes to the girl could sometimes feel like seconds.

So Angela began to help rehabilitate her ability to tell time. She would sit outside the chamber (for clocks, Winston explained to her, would malfunction if inside) and ask Lena to count seconds with her, “One Mississippi, Two Mississippi,” or else she would sometimes have her patient complete small exercises.

“Okay Lena,” Mercy said as she began one of these tests, “I am going to start this clock, and I want you to tell me when you think a minute has passed. It doesn’t have to be exact. Just guesstimate. Okay?”

Tracer nodded, eyes hard and focused, and Mercy started the clock.

Barely ten seconds had gone by, though, when Tracer said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“That was a minute. Wasn’t it?”

Mercy glanced at the clock, “Lena, that was eleven seconds.”

Lena cast her gaze downward.

“That’s okay, Lena. You are getting better—remember when you simply forgot we were counting altogether?” Mercy smiled softly, “See this clock on the wall? I want you to use it, whenever you are confused, or scared, try to look at the clock. Alright?”

Tracer nodded, smiling sadly. And it was this uncharacteristic quietness that upset Angela the most when regarding her patient, who by all accounts was before this incident a right chatterbox.

Additionally, it seemed that Lena’s sporadic disappearances were completely random, and upon reappearance she would sometimes awaken as if from a nightmare, but other times continue an interrupted conversation as though no time had passed at all.

And she seemed to imagine things, would suddenly spout nonsense, or briefly insist things were true that were not. Mercy thought she seemed delusional, though when the delusions passed Lena could rarely recall them, and even more rarely explain what they meant.

As the next month passed, Tracer did seem to be improving very gradually, falling into bouts of confusion and delusion that only became more occasional with time. Soon she would gab happily with Angela or Winston for hours at a time before her language became muddled as she unknowingly told stories out of order or even pronounced words backwards, or in other cases she would eventually steer the conversation towards events or characters that to Mercy seemed imagined. Still, lucidity was becoming Lena’s norm and a smile regularly graced her face again.

“And then I got her the scarf!” Tracer finished one day, after Mercy asked her to tell a story as an exercise.

Angela smiled warmly, though the story made little sense, and it seemed like Tracer expected her to know who this “Emily” character was.

“I miss Christmas,” Tracer lamented as Mercy glanced at the small Christmas tree in the corner of the lab, “I mean real Christmas. When I’m not a secret lab experiment, and I can hug my friends, and eat turkey. I love to think about people home with their families, eating pie, being happy. It’s a grand old time, it is. You ‘n Jack ‘n Winston. Even the bad guys. They outta have families too, right? Like Reaper. What do you s’pose he does for the holidays?”

“Oh, Lena,” Mercy said concern rising in her voice, “It’s perfectly normal after a traumatic or near-death experience to believe you saw something like an after-life, or a Grim Reaper-like figure leading you to—”

Tracer burst into laughter at that, “‘Grim Reaper’? Are ya kidding? That edgy wannabe? He wishes.”

“Lena, what on Earth are you talking about?”

After searching desperately in Mercy’s eyes for a spark of recognition, Lena’s jokey assuredness was replaced with confusion. She looked to Winston, watching her from farther away, equally bewildered. She somehow felt a chill run through her unfeeling bones.

“Lena?” Mercy asked, “‘The Reaper’?”

“The what?”

“You were just saying. The Reaper. ‘Edgy wannabe’?”

Lena stared blankly, confusion in her eyes, “I’ve heard that before. Where have I heard that before?”

Mercy opted not to remind her patient that she’d heard it from her own mouth just moments ago, knowing that the conversation would continue in circles.

And on top of it all, no one could touch her. Tracer was a ghost, and it was only those surfaces that were permanent fixtures of the building that offered her any physical resistance (another peculiar feature of her condition that begged more research).

It was a puzzle, to say the least. A miracle, to say the most, that she was there at all. But puzzling to both Dr. Ziegler and Dr. Winston, though experts in their fields.

When Tracer’s improvement seemed to stagnate, the two scientists were at a loss. Each time that Tracer would disappear, they could lose days or weeks of work and she seemed to regress in her rehabilitation.

“Please, please help me!” Tracer cried as she suddenly appeared back in the chamber after one absence of thirty-three hours, “Please!”

“She’s back!” Winston called, as had become nothing short of a routine for the doctors. He and Dr. Zeigler quickly approached the chamber, Mercy entering as soon as she saw Lena’s distress.

“They think I’m insane. I’m losing my mind. It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it.” Lena shouted over silent noise, “Please, it’s not worth it.”

“Lena, you’re fine. You’re safe," Mercy said.

“Please, you have to help me,” Tracer begged, “ever since I got out… I’m not the same as I was!”

“Since you got out of the Slipstream?”

“No, no. Since I got out of the lab. Since I got out. This place. Here.” Lena gestured wildly at the chamber around her.

“You’re here, Lena. You’re here in the lab, you disappeared but now you’re back.”

Something in Tracer’s face told Mercy that Lena wasn’t talking about being lost in time again, but she had no clue what she was talking about, and a moment later Tracer had no clue either.

“Count with me,” Mercy said, “Look at the clock. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi…”

Tracer did not count audibly, but she did calm down. For the rest of the day, though, she retreated into herself, muttering nonsense, clutching her hair like she was trying to put together an impossible puzzle.

And it was that day that Winston and Mercy sighed in unison, glanced at each other, and said:

“We need help.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new friend arrives to help Lena.

So, after much bureaucracy and a passive-aggressive reminder to Overwatch’s board that the last thing the financially-strapped organization needed was a lawsuit from the damaged pilot, Winston and Mercy were granted access to Overwatch’s most prestigious doctors and scientists to help them help Lena.

For several weeks, various esteemed thinkers were introduced to Tracer. Experts on time, space, and physics were called in; psychologists, neurologists, and doctors of all kinds would speak to her, taking mystified notes; even ophthalmologists and otolaryngologists investigated Lena’s self-reported dulled vision and muffled hearing. Her continued (though gradually lessening) confusion and her non-solid state, however, meant all of these brilliant scientists could get barely farther in their studies of the girl than Mercy and Winston had themselves.

One morning, though, when Mercy entered the lab as dejected as she’d been the day before, she was shocked out of her pre-coffee stupor by the gorilla dancing excitedly at his whiteboard.

“I called him!”

Angela looked around in confusion, “Called who?”

“There’s this physicist,” Winston said, “I’m a big fan. He’s from The Netherlands. He doesn’t work for Overwatch but yesterday Morrison gave me permission to contact him about Lena. You see, I was thinking about Lena’s case the other night, you know how we can’t really help medically until we can fix her physically. So I was doing calculations—surely it’s all got to do with time. Then I realized—What has the power to bend time?”

There was a pause, and Mercy felt briefly stupid. Then she mentally berated herself when the answer seemed obvious: “Gravity?”

“Gravity!”

Mercy nodded slowly, “So this physicist…”

“Is the number one expert in his field. Gravity. The situation is quite complex, obviously. But I really think he can help us. Help Lena. He’s coming today. Should be here within the hour.”

Angela chuckled, “Calm down, Dr. Winston. You are acting like a fanboy.”

Winston scrambled to make his office presentable, and Mercy began her day by looking over her notes. It was, indeed, less than an hour later that there was a gentle knock at the door, “Excuse me,” an accented voice said, “I am here for a Dr. Winston.”

Winston nearly jumped out of his fur as he went to the door, “Angela,” he said, opening it, “I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Siebren de Kuiper.”

-x-

Winston and Dr. de Kupier chatted for several hours about science that Mercy could only vaguely understand before the gorilla invited him to briefly meet Lena and observe the phenomenon of her ghostly form in person.

“You can talk to her,” said Angela, “but please be patient. She’s had to speak with a lot of doctors lately; I think she prefers a friend.”

Sigma nodded, peering into the chamber and seeing Tracer, who was sitting cross-legged, rocking back and forth on the floor and lost in her own thoughts.

“Lena!” said Winston, “This is Dr. Siebren de Kuiper. He specializes in gravity. I think he can help us make you, erm, solid again.”

“Brilliant!” said Lena, bouncing up to greet them, “Can I eat food again, then? I’m dying for some chips.”

“I will see what I can do,” said Dr. de Kuiper, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Oxton. I’ve heard about you—you are very brave. I can’t imagine going through what you’ve gone through.”

Lena’s gaze shifted to Siebren, and her goofy smile turned into a confused frown, “Sigma.”

He cocked his head, “Excuse me?”

Tracer approached the glass of the chamber, aiming to rest her hand on it but collapsing to the floor when it phased through. She backed away again until she was fully inside the room. “You hear it too, don’t you? After what happened to you.”

He, too, backed away slowly, glancing at Winston and then back at the patient, “Hear what, my dear?”

Tracer’s gaze turned hopeless, her heart filling with loneliness, “I don’t know. Nevermind.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mercy as she entered the chamber to try and comfort Lena however she could manage, “I am sure Winston informed you, Dr. de Kuiper, that on top of her physical condition Lena is also suffering from delusions. Actually, that’s why it is so important that we have you here—once we can interact with her physically, we might be able to figure out what’s wrong. And how to fix it.”

It was all Dr. de Kuiper needed, seeing Lena fall through the glass and onto the floor, and he and Winston were able to jointly develop theories related to Tracer’s condition. They realized that the few objects that Lena could touch, such as the floor and the building’s wall, were those surfaces that had been in a particular location for the longest amount of time (parts of the building, Winston noted, were at least a century old). The amount of resistance an object gave her would only decrease as objects became less permanent, her body phasing through other people or new items.

This, they theorized, had to do with Lena being scattered physically through multiple instances of time. And so Dr. de Kuiper came up with an idea that would use gravity, which was one of the few forces with the ability to bend time itself, to pull her body into the present.

The scientists began working to modify the chamber to incorporate Siebren’s theoretical device, but after two weeks of work Dr. de Kuiper was reluctant to inform Winston that he was shortly to travel to space to study a black hole, and that he needed to return home to prepare.

“Good luck, Dr. Winston,” said Siebren on his final day at Gibraltar. He turned to Lena, who was playing with strands of her short hair, humming to herself, “Good luck, Lena.”

Lena stopped humming and looked at him hopefully.

“No, keep singing,” Siebren said, “It’s a nice tune. I like it.”

She smiled softly at him—had she been singing? She was filled with dread for his departure. She was sure it was just because she was losing a new friend.

“Keep in touch,” said Lena, pushing the dread away, “Can you send letters from space?”

So Siebren went away, but he left Winston with enough to finish building the gravitational device that would help pull Lena into the here and now.

So, when that day came that all the math added up perfectly and all the pieces fit together, Winston fit the new device onto the chamber and the team prepared to power it up.

“Now Lena,” said Winston, “Don’t be afraid. We’ve tested this on scraps from the Slipstream we were able to locate. Once I pull this lever, your body should become solid and you should regain your senses.”

“Chips?” asked Tracer.

“Sure,” Winston said, “We can get you some chips.”

“Well, let’s get to it already!” Lena said, bouncing on her heels.

“Lena, settle down,” said Angela, “I want you to take deep breaths. This might shock your system. Your body hasn’t ‘existed’ for months.”

“I know. It’s worth it, though. Chips! And hugs. I’m ready.”

“You should lie down for this, Lena,” Mercy offered.

“I’m more comfortable standing, Ange,” said Tracer, “I’m too excited!”

“Okay. Deep breaths,” said Angela, “I can’t be in there will you while we activate the device. Tell us when you’re ready.”

“Ready!” said Tracer, almost immediately. And Winston pulled the great lever, though the only indication that he did was a brief sucking sound.

The ground beneath Lena’s feet suddenly felt wrong, and the air felt too heavy to breath. The whirring of computers and the tick of the clock were deafening in her ears, and the dim light burned her eyes. Her knees buckled when her returning muscles felt weak.

“Lena,” said Mercy, teetering on her feet until Winston gave her the nod that it was okay to enter the chamber.

“Ohh,” moaned Tracer as Mercy quickly approached her, “Prolly shoulda laid down.”

“Hey, Lena, can you hear me?” Mercy asked.

Tracer winced at that, which was answer enough for Angela.

“What is it? Too loud?” 

Lena nodded, tears forming in her eyes, moving to cover her ears.

Ever so cautiously, Mercy moved to touch Lena. She put a hand on her shoulder, gentle as ever, but pulled it away when Lena flinched in pain.

“Winston,” said Mercy, “can you lower the lights in here? I think it’s hurting her eyes. And turn off anything you can that’s making noise. She’s overstimulated.”

Winston did as he was told, opting not to speak for fear that his booming voice would hurt Lena more.

The lights went down and some of the machines stopped buzzing, though the tick of the clock and the whirring of the chamber itself remained, “Is that better, Lena?” Mercy asked. “Try opening your eyes.”

And, when she did, Tracer found that even in the darkness colors were brighter and more vivid than she’d ever remembered them being. She looked at Angela’s face—edges seemed sharper, and she felt like a veil had been lifted from her senses.

She could smell the metal in the air, Winston’s bananas. Angela’s flowery perfume stung her throat like poison.

Her body ached, and chills ran up and down it like they were running a marathon. She shivered, the metal floor on her bare feet for the first time seeming unbearably cold. Even so, her skin seemed to burn. Hypersensitive, even her own fingertips digging into her palms felt like they were irritating a wound.

When Mercy had touched her, her nerve endings lit up like fireworks. Intense, terrifying, but beautiful—like, well, fireworks. Human touch. It was foreign, but so familiar. She was scared that it hurt.

“Lena?” Mercy asked, and Tracer blinked back into reality, wondering how long she’d escaped to her thoughts, “Lena, can I touch you?”

Tracer bit her lip in fear, but before she could answer pain shot through her head and she doubled over, “Oh, bollocks.”

Mercy sent caution to the wind, then, and kneeled before Lena without hesitation. She placed a medical kit beside her and grabbed Lena’s head gently in her hands, apologetic but not deterred when Tracer winced again and tried to pull away, “I’m sorry, Lena. Let me see your head.” She felt around her head gingerly, finding the tender spot where she must have hit it so many months ago.

“Is she okay?” Winston asked, frowning when Tracer groaned at his voice.

“She’s overstimulated and she’s got injuries from the crash,” Mercy said, “You did your job beautifully, Dr. Winston. It’s time for me to do mine.”

Mercy began to reach for her medical supplies, but was stopped by a hand on her arm. She turned to see Lena, eyes wide in awe. Lena looked from her own hand to Angela’s eyes, amazed at her own ability to to feel another person’s skin, and let out a pained, “Thank you…”

And then she passed out.

Soon a bed was wheeled into the chamber and Mercy went to work caring for Lena’s wounds.

“Clearly these haven’t healed.” Mercy said later when Lena was awake and any immediate danger had passed, “Do you think they will now that she is tangible, Dr. Winston?”

Winston cleared his throat, “Theoretically, yes.”

“Ow,” Tracer said as Mercy cleaned a wound behind her hair, “This isn’t making me love feeling again.”

“Sorry, Lena,” Mercy said, “Do you remember hitting your head?”

“Doc, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Oh yeah, nothing. When can I get some food?”

Angela sighed, “Winston, can you grab her something from the commissary?”

“Chips, please!” sang Lena.

Winston chuckled, “I’m a scientist! Not a butler. But fine. Anything for you, Lena.” And with that he left.

“How hungry are you, Lena? Does it feel like you haven’t eaten in months?” asked Mercy.

“Normal hungry,” Tracer said, “Like I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Mercy nodded thoughtfully, “How are your senses?”

“Still too bright,” Lena admitted, “Still too loud. Skin still burns.” She smiled lightly, “But better.”

“How else are you feeling?” Mercy said as she bandaged Lena’s head.

“Little dizzy,” said Tracer, “It’s cold.”

Mercy frowned—they’d turned up the heat for Tracer, and the doctor was sweating through her coat.

Glancing at the monitors they’d hooked up to the now-solid Tracer, Mercy’s frown deepened.

“What?” Tracer asked, noticing the look.

“Nothing,” said Angela, “Your vitals aren’t exactly normal. I suppose that’s to be expected.”

It was true; her body temperature was cold and her heartbeat was irregular. Her blood pressure was low and several numbers didn’t seem to add up.

Angela shined a light into Tracer’s eyes and had her follow her finger. “Your concussion is minor. And you don’t need stitches. Say ‘ahh’,” she said, sticking a tongue depressor into Tracer’s mouth. 

She had Tracer hold out her arm and Mercy started taking as many vials of blood as she thought the girl could handle, hoping to run as many tests as she could think of.

“Okay. Dizzy, dizzy,” Tracer said, and Mercy immediately capped off the last vial and removed the tube from Tracer’s arm.

“I think I stuck enough needles in you today, anyway.” Mercy chuckled, “Thank you for being so patient.”

“Where’d Winston go? I never got my gorilla hug.”

Mercy felt a familiar dread again, “He left just a few minutes ago. He’s getting you food, don’t you remember?”

“No, I already ate. He got the wrong kind of chips.”

Mercy rubbed Lena’s back soothingly, “Winston hasn’t come back yet, Lena.”

Lena felt insane, but all she said was: “Oh,”

Tracer flinched away from Mercy’s soothing hand, started rocking and humming. She was playing with the blankets on the bed, picking loose strings out of them.

Mercy did not know what to say, for with all of their progress these moments of confusion were still far too common. All she could hope was that, now that Lena was tangible, brain scans and medical tests could bring them to an explanation and, hopefully, a solution.

It was then that Winston returned, and he frowned seeing Lena no longer happily gabbing with the doctor and instead humming anxiously to herself. He carried a tray of beef, mashed potatoes, and three bags of potato chips.

“Winston!” Mercy said as he passed the tray to her to take into the chamber to Lena.

“What?”

“Winston, these are crisps. Not chips. She meant french fries.”

“Oh. Sorry. I can go--”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not that. It’s just… something she said.” Mercy took the tray and brought it to her patient, “Here, Lena.”

Lena stared at the food long and hard, clenching her fists, tears forming in her eyes, feeling insanity creep into her mind. Hadn’t this happened before?

Winston panicked, “What’s wrong? Is this about the chips? What happened while I was gone?”

Silently, Lena took the tray and started eating, unable to help the blissful smile that overtook her taste at the flavor that to anyone else would be mediocre at best.

Mercy smiled back, leaving the chamber to the next room, where Winston followed her.

“What was that about?” said the Gorilla, “I’m sorry about the fries.”

“It’s nothing,” Mercy said, “Winston, we’ve solved one issue. But we still have another, bigger one on our hands.”


	7. Chapter 7

Tracer’s brain scan did not answer any questions, but it rather posed new ones. Indeed, to Mercy and the neurologists she had look at the data, the activity in Lena’s brain did not remotely match what they would expect from a dementia patient or an amnesiac. In fact, activity seemed increased beyond what was normal and it forced a shrug on the doctors’ shoulders.

But there was one specialist, called in more for her overall intelligence than for her particular field of study, that seemed to have a plausible theory.

Indeed, Mercy never liked Overwatch geneticist Dr. Moira O’Deorain, but, desperate to help Lena, she handed the doctor several hours of footage recorded from Lena’s interviews and sessions, as well as her brain scans and test results and asked her if she had any ideas at all.

And the only thing Dr. O’Deorain liked more than a fascinating case study was a challenge, so after reviewing the footage and brushing up on her knowledge of space and time, she came to Mercy with a rather outlandish albeit fascinating idea.

“It seems so obvious,” she started, Mercy huffing in annoyance and Winston tapping his foot impatiently beside her, “I mean, here you are looking for existing medical explanations for a completely new condition! I thought better of you, Doctor.”

“Pardon me, Dr. O’Deorain, but can we... get on with it?” Winston said, for though he hardly knew the geneticist Mercy had warned him of her snobbishness.

“You know,” said Moira, “the subject—”

“Please don’t call her that,” Mercy muttered.

“Apologies. The _patient_ ,” Moira continued, “She suffers from delusions, confusion, short-term and long-term forgetfulness, temporary memory loss.”

“Yes,” said Mercy, “Some psychiatrists have diagnosed her with schizophrenia, but others insist that she suffers from some form of dementia.”

“How silly!” said Moira, “I don’t think she is delusional at all.”

“Of course she is,” said Mercy, “Did you watch the footage? She will suddenly ramble about hackers and reapers, and she looks at me like I should know what she’s talking about. Minutes later she cannot explain any of it.”

“Listen to me, Dr. Ziegler,” said Moira, “It will all make sense in a moment. I don’t think that she has dementia. In fact, I don’t think she is suffering from any memory loss at all.”

Mercy opened her mouth to argue, but Moira shushed her.

“The problem with you is that you are looking at the girl like a patient, not like the result of a science experiment. Putting her condition into the context of what happened to her, plus examining those behaviors in your footage that are inconsistent with her psychological diagnoses, I have been led to believe that she is not experiencing her reported symptoms because of memory loss, but because she remembers too much.”

Mercy and Winston stared at her dumbly, as though expecting more.

“She was lost in _time_ ,” Moira explained, sighing in exasperation. “What is memory but the way that humans interpret the past? This girl, the subject. The patient. I believe what you and Dr. Winston describe as ‘delusions’ are simply memories. Memories of things far in her past. And things that have not happened yet.”

“So you think…” Winston started.

“...You think Lena is telling the future?” Mercy finished.

“Precisely!” said Moira, “But perhaps she doesn’t know it. Who knows how that could affect the mind?”

“It…” Mercy sighed, “Look, Dr. O’Deorain. Sometimes when I speak to Lena, or when I look into her eyes, it seems to me that we are missing a piece of a puzzle, a piece that she has but we cannot see. It’s certainly drifted into my mind that she’d developed some sort of precognition, but I never could invent a theory around it, not without more evidence or conducting experiments. But what you’ve said—I do think it makes sense.”

“Excellent.” Moira smirked proudly, “So, when may I speak to her?”

“Speak to who?” Mercy asked.

“The sub— the _patient_. Lena.”

Mercy blinked, “I’m sorry, Doctor. I really don’t think that would be a good idea. She’s in a fragile state and you can be…”

“Cold.” Winston finished.

“Doctors, of all of us here I may be the first one to actually be able to understand what is going on inside that girl’s mind. It is only fair that you give me a chance.”

Winston and Angela glanced at each other, and Mercy bit her lip in thought before reluctantly uttering the word: “Fine.”

* * *

So, three days later when Lena to Angela seemed stable and in good spirits, the scientists invited Dr. O’Deorain to come and speak with her.

“Lena,” Mercy started as she entered Tracer’s chamber with Moira in tow, “I want you to meet a colleague of mine. This is—”

“—Dr. O’Deorain,” Tracer finished, automatically, perhaps unconsciously.

Moira cocked her head to one side, “Have we met, Miss Oxton?”

Tracer looked at her dazedly for a moment, then shrugged.

“Lena, Dr. O’Deorain is just going to ask you some questions,” said Mercy

“Yeah.” Tracer smiled lightly, “All the docs you got coming in ‘n out, I know the drill.”

“Actually, Dr. Ziegler,” said Moira with a huff, “Could you leave us?”

Mercy bit her lip, “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Doctor, I cannot possibly work with you hovering.”

Mercy sighed, “Is that alright, Lena? If I step out?”

Tracer regarded Moira for a moment, filled with unexplained dread. And yet she knew that it was unexplainable, so she said: “I’ll be fine, Ange.”

Mercy clocked the unfamiliar nickname again—if Moira’s theory was correct, could this mean the two would one day grow to be close friends? “I’ll be right outside, watching with Winston on the monitors.”

After some hesitation, she backed out of the chamber, leaving Tracer alone with Moira.

“Remarkable,” said the geneticist, “Miss Oxton, is it often that you guess names correctly?”

Tracer shrugged again, the inexplicable distrust she felt only growing.

“These doctors all think you are sick,” said Moira, “But I think you are a scientific marvel. Why don’t you tell me what happened on that flight?”

“Can’t,” said Tracer.

“Why not?”

“Can’t remember.”

“See,” said Moira, “I think you can remember. I think you can remember a lot of things,”

“No, I’ve already tried with Mercy and Winston,” said Tracer, “My memory’s shot. My brain doesn’t work right anymore.”

“What happens when you try to remember?”

“Remember what?” Tracer asked.

“The flight. Anything.”

“It’s confusing. My head hurts. Frustrating.”

“Why is it frustrating?” Moira asked.

“It’s like, it’s there. On the tip of my tongue. But I can’t catch it. It’s there somewhere. Like when you know the word you are thinking of, but you can’t remember it? Or like when you forget a dream.”

“So you don’t remember what you did yesterday?”

“I think I do,” said Tracer, “Somewhere. I sometimes remember stuff, but I don’t know when I’m remembering from. Or if it’s real. Does that make sense?”

“Do you remember the beginning of this conversation?” 

Tracer shrugged.

“Miss Oxton,” said Moira, “Does it surprise you when they tell you that you are only nineteen?”

“A little,” said Lena.

“Why?”

“‘Cause there’s too much in my head, I guess.”

“Lena,” said Moira, “can you remember the day you were born?”

“What?” said Tracer, “Of course not. No one can.”

“I think you can,” Moira pressed.

Tracer felt anxiety rise in her chest, but she still wasn’t sure why, “No. Doc, that’s impossible.”

“Don’t you remember sliding out of a dark, wet tunnel and seeing the world for the first time? Do you remember your own wailing?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Tracer said quickly, hand reaching for her collarbone, “I couldn’t breath. Something was around my neck.” 

“So you do remember,”

“No,” said Tracer, “I must be remembering something else. I don’t know. I…”

“Look at me, Miss Oxton. Tell me, can you remember what happens tomorrow?”

“What?” said Tracer, feeling flushed and nauseous.

“Come on, Lena. You can remember the future, can’t you? That’s how you knew my name.”

Tracer shook her head frantically, “No. Angie must have told me. Or Winston.”

“Why do you call her Angie, Lena? You haven’t known her that long.”

“We’re friends.”

“Can you remember tomorrow, Lena? Can you remember ten years from now? Can you remember the day you die?”

Tracer covered her ears at this point, shutting her eyes and stumbling backwards, “Stop it. I can’t, I can’t…”

“We are just trying to help,” said Moira, “But we need to understand what’s going on inside your mind. What do you remember, Lena?”

Tracer breathed in deep gasps, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, “I don’t know. It’s like everything is happening right now. I can’t tell what’s real, I think I make things up sometimes. I have these memories, but I can’t put them in order. I can’t tell if things are happening or if I’m remembering ‘em. I’m sorry, Doc. I wish I could help ya out. I can’t tell you what’s gonna happen tomorrow. I can’t tell tomorrow from yesterday.”

“Fascinating,” said Moira, “So has this happened before?”

“Has it?” said Tracer, “I’m sorry. I repeat myself a lot. I get so confused. I remember doing things I never did and forget I said stuff I already said. At least that’s what Dr. Ziegler tells me. I think I’m losing my mind.”

“No, Lena!” Moira strode uncomfortably close and bent down to look directly into Lena’s eyes, “Your mind is the most amazing part of this puzzle. I would love to bring you to my lab one day once you are out of here. Do tests…”

Lena flinched away from the scientist, “Get away from me.” Tracer scurried as far from Moira as the chamber would allow, “You’re a…— You’re a monster.”

“Miss Oxton, it’s me. It’s Dr. O’Deorain with Overwatch.”

“I know who you are,” said Lena, “I’ve seen what you’ve done. The tech you’ve stolen. What you did to Am—”

“Lena,” said Dr. O’Deorain, “You’re confused.”

Even Moira was beginning to grow uncomfortable with the situation when Mercy burst through the door, “That’s enough.”

“I don’t know what happened,” said Moira, “But I think my theory is right.”

“Lena.” Mercy ignored the geneticist, “Hey, I know she’s a bit of a witch, but Dr. O’Deorain won’t hurt you,”  
  
“Yes, she will,” said Lena, watching her own fingers tremble.

“Is that something you remember?” There was a delicate hesitancy in her voice.

“Is what something I remember?”

Mercy let out another breath, “Lena, relax for a moment. Look at the clock. I’m going to speak with Dr. O’Deorain in the next room.”

And that she did, and as soon as the door shut Moira spoke like it physically pained her not to do so, “Well I don’t know what the girl is talking about. My methods aren’t as wholesome as yours but I certainly wouldn’t harm a human subject. On purpose.”

“Clearly what she relays to us aren’t so much predictions as confused flashes. Memories, as you put it. Biased, perhaps more emotional than factual.” The gears in Mercy’s mind picked up speed, “I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.”

“We can’t put too much stock in it,” said Winston, approaching the women, “Any, actually. If Dr. O’Deorain is correct and she has memories of the future, we must take care not to heed any warnings she may have for us. This is all theoretical, of course, but we don’t want to mess with our own timeline.”

“Dr. O’Deorain,” said Mercy, “Do you think…?”

“Do not worry, Angela,” said Moira, “I will keep this a secret from Jack and the rest of Overwatch.”

“Thank you,” said Mercy, “Who knows what they might try to do with that sort of power? Just for now, of course. Until we can understand her more.”

“You have my word,” said Moira, “Corporate noses in Miss Oxton’s business will only make it harder for us to make fascinating scientific advancements regarding her condition. I will be on the base, Dr. Ziegler. Please give me a ring the next time you are in need of any assistance with your… patient.”

And with that Moira left, Mercy feeling stressfully like she was now somehow in the geneticist’s debt.


	8. Chapter 8

Winston, apparently, had lost contact with Dr. de Siebren, with whom he had been communicating regarding the creation of a smaller, portable chronal field for Tracer. Still, he cast his worries about his new friend aside and focused on the design that he thought was promising to say the very least.

And in the meantime Mercy continued to work with Lena, cutting off the constant flow of scientists to her chamber when all but Dr. O’Deorain had proved unhelpful and only made to stress Lena (and herself) out.

This particular week had been a busy one for Mercy and Winston, Winston working tirelessly on his new device and Mercy’s time split between Tracer and caring for patients that had been injured on a recent mission. Focused on those patients during the day, she worked with Lena all night, and consequently neither Mercy nor Winston had gotten very much sleep.

And this morning, while Mercy delivered Tracer another blanket (as she was still inexplicably cold), Winston jumped in fright when a polite knock sounded at the lab’s door, which was already ajar.

In poked a head that Tracer could not quite see from her place in the chamber, bundled up beneath blankets.

“Dear Winston,” said an accented voice, “How do you do? I wondered if Angela was here.”

Then Mercy emerged from Lena’s chamber, hot coffee in hand, “Gerard? What—Oh, _scheisse_ , we had a meeting, didn’t we?”

“In fact yes,” said Gerard, “But maybe my coming here was for the best. I do believe it would behoove us to have Monsieur Winston join us, would it not? Mr. Winston, we’ll be discussing production and, erm, uses, of Angela’s theorized Caduceus Staff—did you not help in designing the hardware?”

“Oh,” said Winston. It seemed like such a small priority to him with everything going on, “I did. I suppose I could be included. If that’s alright with Angela.”

Mercy nodded emphatically, “I think that’s a great idea! Winston, join us please.” She gave the gorilla a look that said clearly: _Agree with everything I have to say. Or else._

Tracer listened to the conversation, intently but only so as not to listen to her own chaotic mind. Certainly she’d met that man, Gerard Lacroix, before. Yes, before her flight! She mentally prided herself on remembering him successfully. But she felt mournful when she looked at him and that confused her as much as anything else did these days.

“Gerard,” called another voice, this one feminine, and even frencher than his. In walked a woman so tall and in the highest heels Lena thought she might hit her head on the doorway. (Winston never did, she realized a moment later, so the thought seemed rather idiotic).

“Ah, yes!” said Gerard, too much pride in his voice, like he was presenting his own award, “You two have met my wife, Amelie.”

“Yes, of course!” Mercy blurted, too excited, almost uncharacteristically so. She cleared her throat after that, flashing the woman a sheepish look. Amelie met the look with what to Tracer seemed like a rather flirtatious grin. “Um,” said Mercy, “Gerard, Winston, why don’t we speak in the next room?” She glanced at Tracer, as if asking for consent to leave her alone, and Lena answered with a goofy thumbs up.

“Amelie,” said Gerard, “Would you wait here pour un moment? We are discussing some rather sensitive information.”

“Of course, _mon cher_. Do not be long,” said Amelie.

They started to go, but not before Winston could add, “Just… don’t touch anything.”

Then Amelie was left wandering the lab alone, and she considered that it was certainly rather unprofessional that they’d let a civilian like herself explore such a top-secret laboratory without supervision. Then again, Gerard brought her to work often and she was trusted among Overwatch’s agents. Some more than others. Some much more than others.

She supposed the doctors were sleep-deprived and that made for their rather lax security. And she knew that security cameras and Winston’s AI would certainly stop her if she tried to do anything uncouth. Not that she would—she loved her husband and respected his work greatly, after all.

She wandered into the still-ajar door to the chamber, which to her seemed empty. She thought she’d take a seat on the comfy-looking bed while she waited, but was considerably startled when the pile of blankets atop it shifted to reveal a young woman.

“ _Merde!_ Pardon, I did not realize that there was anyone here!”

“Trust me, I’d leave if I could,” said Tracer, but at Amelie’s apologetic face she rephrased, “That’s alright, luv. Always nice to have company.” She stuck out her hand, “I’m Lena.”

“Amelie Lacroix.”

“Gerard’s gal?” Lena said, “What a lucky bloke. Whatcha doing here?”

“Only visiting my husband. But as it often does with him, le travail comes first. His work, I mean. He was to give me a tour of this place, of some newly built facilities. But his duties distract him.”

“I’d give ya that tour, but unfortunately I’m not too familiar with anything outside of this cage.”

“ _Oui,_ ” said Amelie, “What happened to you, _cherie?_ You’re so young.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that, Luv. I’m all top-secret. I think Mercy and Winston were just too conked to even realize they left ya in here with me.”

“You’re shaking,” said Amelie, “Are you cold?”

“Yeah,” said Lena, “But that’s okay. I usually am.”

“Is there a thermostat around here? I can make it warmer for you.”

“Didn’t I hear Winston say not to touch anything?”

“Well, no doctor should be keeping his patients uncomfortable,” said Amelie, handing Lena a blanket that had fallen onto the floor.

“Thanks.” Lena smiled.

At that moment, the raised voice of Dr. Ziegler penetrated the walls: “I don’t want this technology to be used in combat,” she said.

“But the fight against Talon!” Gerard shot back, “The greater good. We could save more lives.”

“My answer is final,” said Mercy, “And Winston agrees.”

“What?” came the Gorilla’s deep voice, “Ah, yes. What Angela said.”

“Fine,” said Gerard, “This isn’t over, but I know you two have work to do.”

“Ah,” said Amelie, an impossibly warm smile on her lips as the sounds of footsteps sounded through the hall, “Our friends are returning. Looks like the party is over.”

Lena froze at that, the hairs on her arm standing up as she felt what she could only describe as a physical manifestation of deja-vu. Her heart-rate quickened and her ears rang with the sounds of… screams? Gunfire? She stared at Amelie, eyes wide with recognition.

“ _Cherie,_ ” said Amelie, “Are you okay? You’re shaking again.”

It was as though Tracer didn’t hear the question. She dug her way from the blankets, standing on shaky legs and nearly collapsing but catching herself on the bed. The recognition in her eyes turned to hate, “You!”

“Lena?” Amelie started to step backwards, not sure whether she should be afraid for the girl or of her, “I will get the doctor.”

But before she had the chance to call for Angela, Lena tackled her with more strength than she thought the frail girl had in her. “Why?” asked Tracer, a horrible look of betrayal and rage in her eyes, “Why would you do this?”

Amelie struggled, about to call out until Tracer began crushing her windpipe. “ _Cherie,_ ” she choked, “Lena…”

“Not this time,” Lena muttered, “I’m not letting you get away. After what you did.” Her eyes looked crazed, deep circles underneath them. Tears formed in them, too, dripping onto Amelie’s face below her.

It was at that moment that the three Overwatch agents returned, their leisurely (if argumentative) conversation cut short when the picture before them became clear.

“ _Scheisse,_ Lena!” Mercy called, bolting for the chamber.

Gerard followed suit, “Amelie!”

Angela tried to pull Lena off of the other woman, as gently as she could, but Lena swatted her away. “Lena, what are you doing?” Mercy asked. She turned to Gerard, “I can get a sedative.”

But Gerard was able to grab Tracer underneath her arms and restrain her, though she still struggled.

“Lena,” Mercy said, preparing a needle from the medical kit on the wall, “Hey, hey. It’s me, it’s Doctor Ziegler. It’s ‘Ange’. Calm down. Please, I don’t want to do this to you.”

“Let me go!” said Lena, thrashing wildly in Gerard’s grip, trying to kick his legs, “Who—?”

“Lena,” said Mercy, “Stop struggling. That’s Gerard Lacroix, he’s a friend.”

“Gerard Lacroix is dead!” shouted Lena. And with one worried look at Gerard’s furious eyes Mercy went ahead and administered the sedative.

“Stop!” Lena said quietly after a moment saw her struggles weaken, “I can’t let her get away. She killed him… She killed Mondatta…”

Mercy frowned at Tracer, who drowsily squirmed in Gerard’s arms. Then Mercy knelt down to investigate Amelie’s injuries, and though the woman’s neck was black and blue she seemed largely fine. “Amel—Mrs. Lacroix, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine,” said Amelie, shooing Mercy away lightly.

Gerard passed the dizzy pilot off to Mercy while he helped his wife up himself, “Is this what Overwatch is funding instead of new technologies to fight Talon?”

Tracer mumbled something unintelligible and Mercy lowered her awkwardly onto the bed as she lost consciousness.

“She’s sick,” said Mercy, “I had no idea she would do that—she never has before. We’re still researching—”

“She just attacked my wife,” said Gerard, “Overwatch isn’t going to fund this thing forever, you know.”

“Gerard, please,” said Amelie, “She seems like a very sweet girl.” She looked at Mercy, a sweetness in her eyes, something loving about them, “We were having a conversation, and she was perfectly polite. But then, I don’t know if I said something to her or what. She seemed very ill, in the head I mean, all of a sudden, like she’d gone mad. Then she attacked me. She looked at me as though she knew me, or I was someone else, and she said ‘Why would you do this?’ I think she would have killed me if I’d let her, if you all hadn’t showed up. I don’t know if that helps you, _docteur_. Please do what you can to help her, the poor girl.”

There was a grave look in Angela’s eyes. “Trust me. We are.”


End file.
